


A world without Sherlock is no World for me

by crowleys_bitch_soul



Series: Sherlock crazed friends' gifts [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 11:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3568331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowleys_bitch_soul/pseuds/crowleys_bitch_soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You weren't here Sherlock! You didn't see him! You weren't the one getting drunk phone calls as your good morning! And you definitely weren't the one who ran to the cemetery to find him sitting by your grave with a gun in his mouth!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	A world without Sherlock is no World for me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sherlocks_the_name](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlocks_the_name/gifts).



> I decided to make a series of my gifts to a specific set of friends because i feel like they'll give me more prompts to work with xD

Lestrade couldn't believe his eyes. It was like seeing a ghost, in fact he should be a ghost! But here he was, alive, Sherlock Holmes. Curly headed bastard should've been slapped, but instead was pulled into an embrace so tight, as if he would be gone if Lestrade let go.

==

"Can you believe he slapped me?!" Sherlock paced around Greg's office. "I understand he's surprised at my not being dead. But rather than angry, a normal emotion would have been happiness, such as any other man as demonstrated to me."

Lestrade, who previously had his hands tangled in his grey white hair now shot daggers at the man. "Cut your shit." he grunted. "You of all people have no right to say that, stop being so full of yourself." Sherlock stopped his pacing and turned to look at the detective inspector. He clicked his tongue "This isn't even your division."

That was it, Lestrade slammed his hands on his metal desk and stood. looking as if he were going to lunge at the man. "If this is anyone's division, it's definitely mine! You weren't here Sherlock! You didn't see him! You weren't the one getting drunk phone calls as your good morning! And you definitely weren't the one who ran to the cemetery to find him sitting by your grave with a gun in his mouth!" His pale skin now flushed red and he felt short of breath but it looked like Sherlock, for the first time in history, had no comment. "What's that? Nothing to say?" Good because you're going to sit your ass down and listen to ME for once." Lestrade didn't sit until the detective did.

He stared straight at him, eyes filled with many emotions, so many that Sherlock couldn't read quick enough, but mainly it was sadness. . . depression. "He was a mess Sherlock."

==

Nothing could calm the hurricane that was John. He came with such destructive force, a pure barren path lay behind his steps. Dreams were non existent, and so was John Watson.

It had been two months since Sherlock's death, and John had spent every day and night drowning in alcohol. He stole a taxi and would drive under the influence. He had yet to manage showering at least once a week. Out of these habits also came calling until the digits on the alarm clock burned 2:46 into Greg's eyelids.

John's called were always something except comprehensive. Just a babble of broken sobs of drunken slurs that would have Greg by his side as soon as possible.

Greg, who suddenly took up psychology textbooks and a new schedule that molded around his retired army friend. War wasn't was caused his life so much pain, for his eyes had seen so much more and were looking far too tired. A tired that sleep couldn't fix. 

That, thing, that roamed the empty streets of London at unholy hours with an empty bottle in a hand, was just a shell of a man who used to be. And there was no written textbook on earth that could bring light to those once chipper eyes. So full of spark and amazement, full of questions and wonder, full of a world Sherlock Holmes had helped discover. A world that died along with its' sun.

 

Sunday, May 15 11:45 AM

The date and time should be tattooed on his skin as well as branded onto his mind.

It had been 5 days since anyone last heard of John. And by anyone, it was Greg. There were no called, no memos, not even a sight of the man. He had everyone keeping watch, should the man be spotted they were to report to Greg.

And for some reason he wasn't surprised when he heard John was by the cemetery sitting in front of his friend's grave. And he wished he could say he was surprised when the barrel of a pistol was inside his mouth and it was Johns finger on the trigger. Words wouldn't come out. No "John" or "Stop". It was a dive and a bang later that kept John physically on earth. Now a sobbing mess clinging to a headstone screaming the name engraved on it with all the pain of a broken man.

Mentally he had been lost long ago. Lost to the world of stake outs and a study in pink.

It was Sunday, May 15 at 11:45 AM that John decided the dullness of life drove him mad. That the lack of experiments laying around the apartment caused much more of a mess. That a world without Sherlock was no world he wanted to be a part of.

==

Sherlock now had that date carved into the very essence of himself as well. He stared forward at the wall behind Lestrade.

"Sherlock, he's always been ready to take a bullet for you-" The curly haired man stood and headed towards the door of the office. "Oh and he will. But it'll be on a case, like an honorable man. Because it was never the war that meant to kill John Watson."

"Oh no. It'll be you that's the end on him Sherlock Holmes." Greg shook his head with a huff of a laugh.

"Indeed it will be."

For Sherlock Holmes was the life and death of his partner. 

But the thought of life next to John Watson sounded much more ideal.


End file.
